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From: Max_Wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 9 Aug 2002 23:19:58 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Fish Tank Ch. 5 (MF)
Date: Sat, 10 Aug 2002 02:10:04 -0400
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

The Fish Tank
in honor of ASSD's FishTank
Chapter 5 (of 5)
By theGreatxIam

Pete hadn't even gotten back to sleep on the couch before the
producers were gathering. Like their cousins, the vampires, producers
are up all night -- although, in their case, it's because of
dyspepsia, not porphyria.

The fate of "The Fish Tank" had been heavy on their minds and stomachs
all week. Pete's steadfast refusal to take on new challenges had
stymied them. This late in the season, they couldn't afford to throw
him out. Not that they didn't consider it, but the only alternative
would have been to put Jon back in, and he had been ridiculed by the
critics so viciously that no one wanted that.

The critics -- there, one producer said, there was the problem. Always
giving the show grief about having no redeeming social value. How
about keeping the crew and executives working? What about that for
social value?

The others grumbled their agreement, but no one really wanted to dwell
on bad feelings. It was a night for celebrating. The last two Tank
players were fighting again. All was right with the world.

After a week of nothing to shoot, there was hope for fireworks from
the live segment. Hastily they redid the schedule, whittling away at
the taped bits to give Pete and Des more time to argue. They tinkered
with the rules a bit, too. Not very sporting of them so late in the
game, but all's fair in love and ratings.

Everyone was giggly with excitement and sleep deprivation by the time
they were through. The last task left was one usually left to the
director, but this wasn't a night to stand on ceremony. One of the
producers had a great idea for the music to play in the background as
they led into the live segment, and it was so ordered.

"Love Me Tender," it would be.

---- ---- ----

Pete and Des battled just as nastily as the producers had hoped.
Halfway through the show, she had already called him a two-faced
eunuch and he had been similarly complimentary.

And that was even before the producers dropped two bombshells.

First, with appropriate fanfare, it was announced that the prize to
the ultimate winner was being doubled, to a record high for any game
show. Much more quietly, it was explained that second-place money was
being cut in half.

Second, the host said, there was a slight revision of the rules, as
allowed by the rules themselves. The final winner would be chosen not
by the live audience, but by a national poll.

Immediately after saying that, the host ducked. It was written right
into his script, because the director knew better than to expect the
host to be able to improvise his way out of the way of flung
bric-a-brac.

Thus the glass paperweight that Des threw sailed neatly over the
host's head. It did clock a stagehand, but since the Teamsters have an
excellent disability package, no one much minded that.

"What's the matter, Des?" Pete was at his snarkiest. "No faith in the
judgments of your country? Or do you have too much faith? You know
you're going to lose, don't you?"

"That's just because the people don't know what an asshole you are,"
she snarled. "They don't understand what you're really like."

"Ah, you don't think they're smart, do you? I think they are. Smart
enough to see through "The Fish Tank," for sure. Smart enough to see
this ploy by the producers for what it is, a blatant attempt to freeze
me out."

"What?"

"That's right. Oh, don't you deny it. You've been in cahoots with them
all along. I see it now. Who got all the face time? Des the Destroyer,
of course. Who tried to stop me when I called their bluff? Same old
Des. And now they think they can fool the people with their
last-minute hijinks and your phony act, 'woe is me, how dare they
change the rules.'

"The people at home won't be fooled any longer. Not by you, not by
those scheming producers. It's over, Des. It's all over. America will
have the final say. And I say, God bless America."

---- ---- ----

That night, the Ichthyologists didn't light their candles. They
weren't even at the Tank.

Instead, they had convened at a Starbuck's several blocks away. Bedlam
reigned. One faction wanted to lynch the producers for changing the
rules. "There's something fishy about this," a thin-voiced young man
said, before being pelted with Nutrasweet packets.

Another group wanted to lynch Pete, whom they found suspicious. A
third was eager to string up Des, and all of Pete's enemies, for
selling out.

The rest were neutral, which is to say they took no sides and would be
agreeable to any lynching they could get.

There was general acceptance of only one statement: "It's an outrage."
Precisely what "it" was could be left for subcommittee discussions.

Whatever, it was an outrage, and so outrageous an outrage that one
overwrought soul demanded they take real action: a boycott. "Yeah,"
said another, "he's right! Screw 'em all! We'll just go back to our
real lives and forget the Tank!"

"Point of order! Point of order!" The cry came from the back of the
room.

The chair recognized the delegate from Pomona. "And what is your point
of order?"

"We don't have real lives."

"Point taken. The motion for a boycott is overruled."

---- ---- ----

The Ichthyologists hadn't missed much back at the Tank. Des alternated
all evening between glaring at Pete and ignoring him completely. She
went to bed without a word. When he crawled in and opened his mouth,
she silently gathered pillows and blanket and stomped off to the
living room couch.

So it went for two more days. On the afternoon of the third day, Des
was on the toilet -- mercifully, it was white porcelain, and long
shirts have their uses -- when there was a tap on the wall next to
her.

She looked up. A sign was taped to the other side, in the hallway. It
read, "I think it's going well so far. Don't you?"

Standing behind the sign, Pete had his thumbs up and was grinning
maniacally.

She shook her head and looked away.

The next communication was written in Alphabits on her morning pastry.
"Thanx partner," it said.

She swept the cereal off and grumbled through her coffee before
heading to the bathroom to shower. She looked in the mirror and almost
leaped through the ceiling. "We've got em now," said the writing on
her forehead.

She confronted him in the living room. "Talk," she said.

"What, are you sure? Because I've tried, but you --"

"Talk."

He explained it then. Or at least he offered a plausible scenario. It
was all about the game, he said.

As long as every player stuck to stereotypes, the producers had
control. They could slot everyone into categories and guarantee
results.

But if you started veering off course, that control disappeared. And
he had looked over his fellow players and decided she was the most
likely to be able to pull it off. When Jon had even suggested the
team, that made it perfect.

"Why," she asked, "if this was your plan all along, why didn't you
tell me before?"

"Would you have gone along if I did? Would you have believed me?"

"I don't believe you now."

"Exactly my point!"

She sat back and stared upward for several minutes before looking at
him again.

"So," she said, "so why tell me now?"

"Because it's OK," he said. "Because we've won."

"What we, kimo sabe? You're scooping the big prize. I get just this
side of nothing."

"The prizes don't matter. It's the endorsements, the personal
appearances, the tell-all book. And we're gonna strike it rich.
There's never been a season like this one. All because you followed my
lead."

"I did?"

"Sure. You were perfect. Just keep it up, no matter what I do, no
matter what I say. If I tell you it's midnight when the sun is burning
through these walls, you just say yes and go to bed. If I say the
water's cold even though there's steam, draw a glass and drink it
down. Do it my way and we can't go wrong."

She rubbed her nose. "Wait. How do I know this isn't some weird ploy
to make sure you win?"

"Oh, right, you caught me. I was tricking you. You really should do
exactly the opposite. Don't believe a word I say. Or maybe ..."

He got up, leaned over her. "Or maybe I knew you'd know I was fooling,
and you'd do the opposite of what I said. So you should do what I
say."

He pulled back and started to walk away, then turned to her. "Or maybe
I knew you'd know I knew you'd know I was fooling, so -- let's see,
the inverse of the inverse of the inverse -- yeah, so you shouldn't
believe anything. Or maybe --"

She hit him squarely in the face with a pillow. "I'm withholding
judgment," she said. "But tell me more about those endorsements."

---- ---- ----

Through the rest of the week, they fenced over Pete's offer. On the
one hand, Des said, she assumed she had nothing to lose. On the other,
what if the polls were wrong? What if she was being suckered out of a
prize that could solve so many problems -- paying off the house at
last, helping the kids with theirs, even -- dared she dream --
retirement?

"I keep thinking," she told the camera the day before the final show,
"I keep thinking, what if he has some last-minute surprise brewing?
Something that will blow me away.

"But then I think, maybe he's already done it. He's kept me so busy
wondering that I haven't done anything to help myself. Maybe that's
what he planned all along.

"It's like these walls were mirrors instead of clear -- every argument
reflects back on itself.

"It sucks, is what it is.

"I mean, take the bed. After we talked this week, I still didn't trust
him, and I told him to keep away from me. And he did. A perfect
gentleman.

"Now, does that mean he's sincere? Or does it mean he doesn't find me
hard to resist?

"I'd like to trust him. He certainly stuck it to you guys, and I
respect that. But -- I don't know."

---- ---- ----

The Fish Tank was more like a beehive on the night of the final show.

Producers, crew, network executives all flitted in and out, with their
attempts to look important being in inverse proportion to their actual
roles in the proceedings.

The crowd outside had swelled. Rumors flew that both players had
something special planned to sway the nation their way during the two
hours voting would be open.

In two dozen languages, camera crews shouted at one another as they
tried to disentangle miles of cables so reporters could beam back to
their home countries from what had become the most famous TV show
ever.

One of the producers was kept busy explaining again and again why only
Americans could vote.

"We're caught in a trap," s/he said, "and we can't get out. There are
rules, and time zones, and phone lines. It's complicated."

What about claims that the contest was fixed? "Suspicious minds" was
the dismissive reply.

At last the hour arrived. The crowd quieted. The lights flicked on.
The theme music rolled out.

And then Pete walked toward the cameras, smiled, and said, "I quit."

The host was stunned into silence, but the scream from the producers
could be heard quite clearly from the producers, an anguished "What?"

"I quit," he said again, with a smile. "I give up. I throw in the
towel. Des wins. She gets the money. Show's over. Good night, folks."

In New Zealand, a man watching the satellite feed while at work was
momentarily distracted, an event that his ram, "Old Lop-Ear," resents
to this day.

In a Palm Beach, Fla., nursing home, 16 heart monitors went off at
once. The old folks survived. Two nurses passed out, however, and an
estate lawyer who happened to be visiting ran himself ragged getting
signatures and later expired unnoticed in the parking lot.

In the street where the Tank sat, three dozen residents flung open
their windows, startled by an almost forgotten sound:

Silence.

---- ---- ----

By the time the show was supposed to have gone off the air, Pete and
Des were the only two people left inside. Everyone else had drifted
away in shock, leaving their equipment untouched. The lights still
blazed, the tape recorders whirred.

Outside, the crowd remained, but they had retreated several feet from
the house, as if it would burn them if they got too close. They stared
blankly. Their lips moved, but no sound came out.

Pete and Des both walked through the house, each finding different
memories. They met in the master bedroom.

"So," she said.

"So," he answered.

"Why?"

"It was the only way you'd believe me," he said quietly. "And, like I
said, the only way to win is to do the unexpected."

"But you lost."

"Did I?" He got onto the bare mattress, its bedding stripped off by
the cleaning crew before the show began. "I think I'm going to win the
big prize."

She smiled. "You do, do you?"

"Yes," he said, unbuttoning his shirt.

"But sir, all the lights are so bright. I'm too shy."

"The lights are off," he said. "It's pitch black."

"Ah. Now I see. You're right. But the walls are glass. People will see
us."

"The walls are solid wood. No one can see."

"How right you are," she said, sliding her skirt to the floor.

For the first time, one Ichthyologist later said, people felt ashamed
to be watching. Some left. Others turned their backs.

What they didn't see, the reader can well imagine. Indeed, perhaps
imagine better than words can tell.

Or not. The words we have describe physical acts, of which there were
many. They explored each other in myriad ways, and this time there was
no turning back. They kissed, caressed, licked, probed.

Pete proved to be more than capable of pleasing Des, and demonstrated
that ability several times. She returned the favor.

They were both energetic, more than one might expect for their ages.
And yet there was not just a frenzy to their love-making, but a
passion and even a grace.

It was long after they had begun, and after more than one peak had
been reached, that they locked into a perfect groove.

Their movements were exact complements. Like a child on a swing, going
higher and higher by stretching out at just the right moments, they
pushed each other further and further to ecstasy.

Sweat rolled down Pete's back as he lay between Des' spread legs,
pressing himself into her again and again. She responded, hips rising
to meet him, to take him deep inside.

"Oh," he whispered, "do you feel it?"

"Yes," she said, "yes, it's so close."

"Oh, yes," he cried.

"Almost," she answered, "just -- just --"

He shouted, she moaned. Her legs closed about him, clutched at him as
her body heaved. He buried himself completely in her. They stayed like
that, locked together, for several minutes before they collapsed next
to each other, breath coming in gasps.

---- ---- ----

When we left Pete and Des at Larry King's show, the reader is asked to
recall, she had just completed an act of fellatio that shook six
continents.

When the initial shock was over, the other women on the show reacted
with disgust. Their distaste, it became clear, was not with the act
itself -- her technique could hardly be faulted -- but with the way
she had so swiftly and wantonly acceded to Pete's command.

Des replied that he would do the same for her, and moved to
demonstrate her point by lifting her skirt. Only the collapse of Larry
King face first onto his desk interrupted the encore.

The guests were shoved aside as the paramedics rushed in. Charlotte
and Teresa continued to criticize Des, calling her a submissive slut.
"You can't think for yourself," Teresa said.

Des demurred as she kicked Teresa in the shin with the pointy toe of
her red pump. "I think for myself," she said. "I think that I like
things the way they are."

"But he just snaps his fingers and you do what he says," Teresa
complained, trying to get at Des but being held back by Charles.

"It won for us," Des said.

"But that was a game. This is real life!"

"Life's a game. Don't you get it? It's all about knowing what you
want. I want a husband and a lover and a friend all in one, and I got
him."

"You got him by giving up yourself."

"You ever faked an orgasm to make a guy happy? You ever have a guy
pretend to be moved by a sunset so you would think he was all
sensitive?

"Ever have a guy say 'Oh, honey, this stew is delicious,' because he
knew you wanted him too? Ever tell a guy, 'No, really, your dick's not
small at all?' "

Tony shifted in his seat.

Des put her hand on Pete's arm and walked away. Just before they
disappeared around a wall, she turned back.

"Everybody tries to game life," she said. "Everybody decides what they
want and what they'll do to get it. You don't like my choice, tough.
But before you start criticizing me, think about all the games you
play.

"And remember what they say about people who live in glass houses."

The End

For the complete story and more, visit
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/theGreatxIam/www
For more about the FishTank, a place for writers to get feedback,
visit
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Desdmona/www/FishTank/base/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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